


400 Bones

by therecognitionscene



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therecognitionscene/pseuds/therecognitionscene
Summary: 400 bones crumpled in bedI'm the only one who knows that you're still breathing





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't proofread my own writing before I post because I'm trash. I'm so sorry. Also this fic is inspired by the song 400 Bones by Frightened Rabbit, which I got the lyrics in the summary from. It's such a severich song, please love yourself and go listen to it.

He’s been missing for exactly three months and seventeen days..

Not that he’s really aware of how much time has passed, only that it feels like an eternity since he’s last seen the sunlight. Since he’s last seen _Richard_.

At first it’s thoughts of vengeance that keep him going. Long, drawn-out fantasies of how he’ll repay these bastards in kind for each chunk of skin they carve from his body, for each kick they land to his ribs with steel-toed boots, for each and every time they tell him how much they’ll enjoy killing his little faggot lover once they’ve finished up with him. He’ll make their suffering as seemingly endless as his, except he’ll do it better. After all, he knows the exact way, the exact angle, in which to dig his thumb into a socket to remove an eyeball and cause the maximum amount of pain. He knows which arteries to cut in which order to ensure a long, drawn-out death filled with the agony of enduring the breaking of each bone along the way. For all their brute strength and viciousness, the men who captured him and torture him day in and day out are nothing more than rabid dogs, graceless in their cruelty and formless in their art. They can’t hold a candle to the techniques that Severin has perfected over a lifetime, and despite their repeated and vigorous efforts, they get nothing from him except blood-filled grins and hoarse, mocking laughter.

It isn’t until they bring in the man in the dark hood that things change. That Severin changes.

That Severin _breaks_.

He doesn’t tell them a thing about Moriarty. Even in his half-crazed state, delirious with the new, unspeakable assault on his body and mind, he knows that betraying Jim--that little fucking bastard who’s seemingly left him to die--would leave Richard open and vulnerable. And he can’t do that. He won’t. So he rambles on about the useless stuff, about the gunmen and informants they’ve had over the years who all amount to nothing more than a pile of shit in the end. He slurs out the details of jobs he’s done in the past that had nothing to do with Jim’s criminal activities, mixes in details from his time in the army, keeps them thinking he’s about to let loose real, vital information. 

He keeps this up for as long as he can, but all he succeeds in doing is giving the man in the dark hood time to learn new ways to dig down into his core and destroy him from the inside out.

Vengeance doesn’t cross his mind anymore. Now he thinks only of surviving, of somehow hanging on to the tenuous string that still connects him to life so that he can see Richard just one last time. One glimpse of those deep, soulful eyes, one last chance to tell Richard that he’s the reason Severin’s blood flows, that he’s the one constant in his life that’s kept him trudging forward despite the mental and physical scars he’s carried with him since childhood, one last moment to share together, and he could die. 

Until then, he has to hold on.

When freedom comes it’s bright, blindingly so, and he doesn’t recognize it for what it is. All he knows is that there’s a brilliant white light pouring in from a hole in the blackness that’s engulfed him for time immeasurable. He tries to raise his head to look at it but his body won’t respond. All he can do is hang there, suspended by his wrists from the ceiling, as sharp cracks of sound explode around him, one after another for eons. Then there’s silence, a blissful respite, and from the distance he hears a soft melody calling out to him. It almost sounds like Richard’s voice, he vaguely realizes, though he’s sure it must be the song of an angel. How kind of God, that non-existent motherfucker, allowing him a glimpse of the heaven he’d be denied as he dies. 

Something’s wrong, though. The angel’s song sounds sad and broken. Angels shouldn’t be sad, his Catholic upbringing taught him that much. He tries to tell the angel so and a glob of blood and bits of viscera pour from his mouth with a wet gurgle. The angel’s voice gets closer, more urgent, and then everything fades away into absolute nothingness.

Death.

But death isn’t supposed to hurt, is it? Death is supposed to be easy, a cutting of all ties to the pain and torment of life. So why does it feel like he’s on fire? Like he’s been flayed and dragged through the dirt? He wants to scream, to yell, to punish the universe for lying to him, for making him believe that his suffering would finally be over. Maybe he really is in Hell. Maybe it does exist and he’s being punished for all the terrible things he’d done in his life.

He floats like this, awash in pain, for a never-ending span of time until, at some point, it just... blinks out. The numbness that washes over him is a gift and he welcomes it with open arms, embraces it, cherishes it, settles into it and wraps it around himself like a blanket. This is what eternity should be. At least, it’s what he hopes it is. A total and complete lack of anything. 

After so much agony, why should he want to leave this perfect void? Why should he listen to the voices that echo dimly around him and tell him to wake up? No, no, he doesn’t want to. Because here in this abyss he doesn’t have to admit that he’ll never see Richard again. Here in limbo he’s safe from that realization, forever in between.

It’s so much easier.

_\-----------_

_“I didn’t think you’d come.”_

The angel is back, somewhere far away. Severin is glad. Nothingness is lonely. 

_“Well, I did have to take stock of the damages, didn’t I? Had to see if there were any salvageable scraps.”_

_“.......Fuck you, Jim.”_

_“Feisty today, are we? Oh, don’t look at me like that, bunny. It’s simply business.”_

_“How can you say that? After everything he’s done, after everything he’s gone through, all because of YOU. He might never be the same, and you just-- You come in here and you-- You act like this is all OKAY. Like it doesn’t MATTER.”_

_“Of course it matters. He may have talked. They’re all dead. The ones who took him. All except one, and that’s all it takes: one slippery, sneaky little snake who knows just enough, worming his way out of my grasp, and the whole kingdom--BOOM-- comes tumbling down.”_

_“That’s why you’re here, then? To see if he TALKED?”_

_“He’s a liability. And if he’s compromised the oper--”_

_“Get out.”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_“Get. Out.”_

_“................ Fine. I’ve got loose ends to tie up anyways.”_

_“.....Wait…”_

_“What?”_

_“If you do anything to him… Anything…. I’ll kill you, Jim.”_

\-----------------------------------

When he wakes up it’s like surfacing for air after sitting at the bottom of a pool. His head spins and his lungs burn with each ragged breath he draws in. When he blinks his eyes open, his gaze is unfocused and bleary as he struggles to adjust to the artificial light that shines high overhead. There’s a constant, steady beeping that keeps sounding off near his ear; with a Herculean effort he manages to turn his head enough to see that he’s connected to a heart rate monitor and several IV drips. He must be in a hospital.

Not dead, then.

His fingers flex and, under the rough pads of his fingertips, he can feel the starched thread of the pristine white sheets that cover him to his waist. A quick mental check and he’s fairly sure he has all his limbs still attached to his body, but whether they’re still functioning properly… That’s a different story entirely. He can already feel his impatience growing as he strains his neck to try and look through the opened door of his room; he wants answers. He wants news. He wants Richard. Where is a bloody nurse when a body needs one? He tries to call out but his voice catches on the raw edges of his throat. Before he can try again there’s a soft sound from his right, like a gentle release of breath. With a flash of irritation in his eyes he jerks his head to the other side, much too quickly, and…

“S--Severin?”

Richard is there. Richard. His Richard, beautiful and sweet and perfect and looking so exhausted that it actually hurts Severin to see the dark circles under his eyes and the pain lingering in his features. He goes to raise an arm out and ends up yanking an IV free. Richard lets out a startled little noise and flies out of the armchair he’d been napping in, crossing the room in an instant and catching Rin’s hand between his own.

“No, no, mo ghrá, no, don’t move, you’re going to hurt yourself, you silly thing.” He’s laughing but there are tears pouring down his cheeks. Severin frowns; Richard shouldn’t be crying, especially not over him. He’s not worth it and he tries to tell his lover as much, grunting and shaking his head and choking over the thick dryness of his tongue. Richard simply nods in understanding--of course he understands what Severin’s trying to say, the perfect, wonderful, amazing man-- and cracks a watery smile. “I know. M’sorry, I can’t help it. I was so worried. The doctors, they…. They said you might never wake up. God, Severin, I was terrified…” Richard sniffles and Severin, his chest aching in the best way possible, grins up at his soulmate. Bruises cover nearly every inch of his skin, jagged lacerations tear across his body like fissures, bones are split and organs damaged, but Severin is the happiest man in the world at that moment.

Richard wastes no time then climbing onto the narrow hospital bed, curling around his broken lover and cradling him in slim arms that have never been stronger. Severin melts into the touch, not quite believing it’s all real, marveling at each of Richard’s breath, each brush of his long eyelashes against his cheek, each minute shift of his body.

“B--..... Beautiful….”

Richard looks down at him with pure love shining in his eyes, leaning down to press a kiss to Rin’s temple. “Hush. I’m a mess. I haven’t slept properly in ages, and I can’t tell you the last time I went through my beauty regimen. Oh, but look at me, sitting here talking about not maintaining my eyebrows while you’re all beaten up. My poor, sweet man. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Severin shakes his head. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does. Because he’d endure all the pain and agony in the world again and again if it kept Richard safe. 

Long moments pass as they simply lay there and hold each other. Their breaths cut into the silence of the room, the most beautiful music Severin has ever heard, and it’s to that gentle melody that he falls asleep, his first restorative and wholesome rest since this hell first began.

Richard stays awake and keeps watch over his lion. He brushes a stray lock of hair away from Rin’s forehead and holds him tighter. Outside their room, outside the hospital, the harsh reality of their lives and the after-effects of this episode are waiting for them. But it can’t touch them in the bubble Richard’s made for them. Nothing exists except Severin, and Richard.

The younger man hums a soft lullaby under his breath, an old Irish tune, and watches as the creases in Rin’s forehead smooth out. He smiles. 

“I’ll always bring you home, mo ghrá. I promise.

I’ll always keep you breathing.”


End file.
